


Ashes

by Rosage



Category: Radiant Historia
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:38:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nine moments history won't record in the lives of those with parts both big and small.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote these ficlets in January to practice the character voices and thought that they related to each other enough to fit together as a collage.

1.

Viola’s lips press together as she rereads the message, her thumb leaving a crease next to the messily penned _R._ That scrawl is its own signature, and somehow it tempers the anger caused by his diplomatic tone—were those pretty words dressed in pretty writing, she may have crumpled them.

The messenger waits.  Viola sees the dust below the messenger’s boots and bites her cheek.  In that crease in the paper, she can almost see a future in which she transcends this, in which she rises from the ashes and becomes part of something more.

The messenger’s heel taps, disrupting the dust and straining Viola’s lungs.  The cloud clears her vision.

“Sir—I-I mean, Ma’am!” a soldier calls.  Viola turns and sees a few of them at the end of the mess hall, standing over a broken pot.  Despite herself, she smiles.

“Only one of those was needed, but I’ll be there in a minute.”  When she returns her attention to the messenger, there’s no doubt as to her response.

2.

The Satyros bounces ahead of Stocke, the air around her crackling with now-visible power, wisps of blue that curve before fizzling out.  It tires his eyes, so he turns his attention to searching for wood.  The growing stack of logs in his arms grounds him; he can see into the past and the future, end or recreate life, and find hidden objects, but he still needs to eat, and eating requires cooking, which requires heat, which requires wood.  Wood that’s scarcer thanks to the desertification.

That sort of concern seems too large for him, crouching as he is in the dirt, so he forgets it for the time being and stands to follow Aht, who’s waving him over to look at a fallen branch.

3.

Raul’s hand jumps to the hilt of the sword concealed within his cloak when he hears footsteps in the alley.  As the weapon had become little more than decoration in recent years, he’s not confident in his ability to wield it, but it’s still his only protection against those hunting him.  His grip relaxes when he recognizes his own messenger, though he doesn’t let go.  He knows better—knows better _now_ —than to let his guard down against a man in league with spies.    

The messenger keeps her head down, silently passing a few sheets to him before stepping back.  It kills him a little not to thank her, but even speech is risky, so he nods before unfolding the parchment. 

The former princess of Granorg and the king of Cygnus both sent favorable replies, which pleases him.  Stocke’s whereabouts, however, are still unknown, and Raul isn’t sure if he’s glad for that or not.               

The final page is in a hand he recognizes instantly, one that’s always looked more like that of Noah’s poets than of a soldier.  This is the one he is least sure of, and his heartbeat quickens slightly as he scans it. 

 _I will continue to uphold my sworn duty to the Prophet Noah and his followers,_ is all the letter says, and as vague as it is, it leaves his blood cold as he hands the stack to the messenger to burn. 

4.

“So, I was thinking,” Raynie says one night around the campfire, when her stomach is mulling over dinner and sleep is not quite appealing, “shouldn’t the work we do pay better?  We’re putting our lives on the line, after all.”

Stocke is already lying down; he seems to shut off as soon as the opportunity comes, the only sign he gives that he’s even more tired than the others.  Still upright, Marco is using the light of the fire to check over their supplies, a task he did before they ate.  At her remark, he looks up, his voice affronted.  “Raynie!  What are you saying?  We’re not doing this for money, at least _I’m_ not.”

“Oh, stop being a stiff for one second, will you, Marc?  You know I know why we’re doing this.  It’s just, when the war ends, Alistel will have more money, right?  And as its victors, we’ll prob’ly get a cut.  What would you do with it?”

“I never thought about that.”  Marco returns to setting out bandages from smallest to largest right next to his pile of herbs, which is organized by type.  Raynie can’t help but picture a spark from the fire igniting it all, but she doesn’t have the heart to say anything.  She picks up a stick, meaning to poke the fire but not wanting to tempt fate.  Instead she scratches the dirt by the ashes.  “I suppose I’d fortify our medical supplies,” Marco finally says.  “Perhaps get a better pair of boots.  Traveling does wear them.”

Raynie groans.  “Why did I expect any imagination from you?”

“Well, what would _you_ buy?”

“I’ll get a set of armor as grand as Field Marshal Viola’s,” Raynie says.  “And maybe if we all quit this life and settle in Alistel, I’ll adopt a pet.  Something like a big dog.”

“I didn’t know you thought about settling down.”

“I never had a stable home,” Raynie murmurs, “so I think about it sometimes.  We can each get a house in the same city.  Really sturdy ones, you know?”  She picks the stick up from the dirt, turning it over in her hands.  “Might be nice.”

She doesn’t really want a response, and Marco is perceptive enough not to give one.  Having finished his organization, he starts putting his supplies back into his pouch.  Raynie watches for a minute, then turns her attention to the sky, to the stars that never seem to move no matter how often she does.  She uses her stick to draw a few constellations that a woman in Cygnus taught her, designs to use as a map when she got lost.    

“I think,” Marco says long after Raynie thinks he’s quit the conversation, “that I would buy a horse.”

“A horse?”

“Yes.  A steed to ride into battle.”

“You mean, so you’d be taller than your enemies?”

He complains loudly enough that Stocke stirs, and they both fall still before themselves lying down, though despite her tired body Raynie lays awake, listening to the others’ light snores. 

5.

“Shouldn’t we reach out to Field Marshal Viola?” Stocke asks once they’re settled in Celestia.  Raul’s muscles have just begun recovering from the trip there; the armor on his shoulders once again feels heavy enough to crush them.

“I’ve already been in contact with her,” Raul says shortly.  He’s grateful for Stocke’s silence.   

6.

The Satyros turn away from Raynie as she passes.  Some glare openly.  A few young ones stare in wide-eyed confusion; she waves to them, earning dirty looks from the adults.

Marco complained about this, but Raynie doesn’t much mind.  She’s used to being unwelcome, and at least here she understands the reason.  Besides, she’s got more important problems. 

A hand tugs on her arm.  Thankfully she sees slivers of peach and blue out of the corner of her eye before her reflexes can kick in.  She squats.  “Yeah, Aht?  Do you want something?”

“Um.”  Aht looks this way, that, this again.  She waves for Raynie to get closer, and Raynie offers her ear.  “Did you know Celestia’s the safest place in the world?”

That’s about to change, but Raynie can hardly say that now.  “Is that so?”

She can tell by the bouncing of hair that Aht’s nodding vigorously.  “Yeah!  So, don’t you think Stocke should stay here?  Right here, where it’s safe?”

Raynie already figured that if Aht’s talking to her it’s about Stocke, but the words still make her frown.  “Aht, I—“

“Maybe if you ask him, he’ll stay.”

Raynie turns her face to see Aht’s expression, which looks less hopeful—older, despite the childish request—than she was expecting.  She places a hand on Aht’s shoulder.  “Stocke has an important job to do, prob’ly a lot of them.  I’m sure he’ll visit when he’s done, okay?”

The answer doesn’t seem to satisfy Aht, who shrugs away from Raynie’s touch and scurries off.  Raynie stands, running a hand through her ponytail and catching the eye of a few Satyros who had been watching.  They look away, and she heads to the Patriarch’s house to join the others.

7.

A smile is etched onto Viola’s face.  Stocke stands guard for a respectful minute behind Raul, who’s crouching next to her, muttering.

“You could have turned me in.  As soon as you got my message, you could have…I didn’t even get a chance to thank you for that, and you…for goodness’ sake, is _this_ what performing your duty means?”

Stocke’s toes curl slightly as he glances over his shoulder and coughs.  Still muttering, Raul stands, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword before letting it fall. 

“You deserved a better end,” he whispers.  Stocke pictures a book and a set of staircases connecting, and not for the first time he’s glad he’s good for more than gathering firewood.   

8.

“C-Captain Raynie?”

Raynie still has the urge to salute when she hears the word, though she catches herself in time to face her subordinate, a young, red-faced girl whose cloth armor is crooked. 

“Yeah—yes?  Can I help you?”

“Um, my name’s Amelia, Ma’am.  I just wanted to say it’s an honor to be serving under you, Ma’am.”

Amelia doesn’t seem to know whether to hold her chin up and down, or how to keep her feet still.  Raynie smiles.

“Thanks, Amelia.  One Ma’am’s enough, though.  Here, lemme give you a few pointers…”

A while later, Raynie has helped Amelia with her armor and stance, and Amelia’s face is even redder than before.  “Th-thanks so much, Ma’am!  I’m sure we’ll all do our best to protect our home.”

Raynie watches her run off with the oddest sensation of pride—a familiar feeling—in a new, potent form.  She raps the metal of her breastplate, then grins to herself as she returns to her own duties.     

Home. 

It’s not quite the fairytale she once etched out, but she knows when she hits the cot that night, she’ll sleep soundly.

9.

It takes Viola a long time to realize she’s not in heaven, and even longer for that to sink in.  Even the following weeks feel dream-like; she can’t recall what it’s like to live without death hovering over her, guiding her hand. 

At the prime minister’s order she takes a vacation, though she jumps at every opportunity to perform a service.  On one such day while crossing Levail Hills she finds a Satyros scrambling through the grass.

“What are you doing, little one?” Viola asks, stooping.  The Satyros doesn’t look up, her eyes trained on the ground her hand is gliding over.  It closes around a stick that Viola hadn’t seen; she blinks. 

“I’m gathering wood,” the Satyros says.  “I hafta make graves.”

Her voice is casual in a way that makes Viola’s heart sink, though she doesn’t let it affect her own.  “I see.  That’s a very important job.  May I help?”

As if finally realizing her company, the Satyros looks up.  Smiling, she holds out the stick, which Viola takes before searching the ground for more. 


End file.
